Every time I come out of a relationship, my life turns into a ‘coming of age’ movie of me finding myself again. I dread to think how many times I’ve got lost.
This one was a biggie though.
My life was on track: I had a senior position in the London job I’d always wanted, a long-term boyfriend who I believed was my soulmate, a beautiful, Victorian flat we’d bought together (with a garden!), we went to loads of nice events, and there was a clear trajectory – mostly. A friend actually said to me: ‘You’ve got it so sorted’.
What a joke. I was just existing in a relationship that had turned toxic and hurtful on an almost daily basis and I had become so absorbed in it that, when it ended, I wasn’t sure where it left me.
Or what I wanted. Or really who I was and who I wanted to be.
I liked the other parts of my life still, but I had never been thrilled by them. London wasn’t as fun as I thought it was going to be. It paid nicely, and that was nice.
It felt disingenuous to me though. I wasn’t really, truly, being me.
And then one day, as I was walking over the Millennium Bridge (sounds more dramatic than it’s meant to, I just happened to have to walk over it every day to get home to the flat we were still living in together after having broken up), I realised I was in a really stark place.
A seagull triggered it, swooping under the bridge in front of me. It caught my eye, and I thought: ‘That seagull has a purpose. He has a job to do. Whether it’s feeding himself, or his chicks, or building a nest, or looking for a mate; he’s got a mission and that’s what drives him.
‘What is my mission? Am I really going to just make money, to then spend it, and make more money, and then spend it…? What am I doing this all for?’
I knew I would get out of it in a few days/weeks perhaps, but, right then, I was really aware of my pointlessness. Of this space that I was taking up. I felt embarrassed that I existed. Shameful. I haven’t ever got to that point before. All I could do, then, was acknowledge it and keep walking. Get on the train. Go back to the flat. Exist through the next day and wait for the month of living together to end.
The following week, I explained the break-up to my boss, and he said: ‘Why don’t you take 5 weeks off over Christmas?’ So I did. I took out two credit cards and booked flights to Australia to see some of my closest and most wonderful friends on the other side of the world. For a whole, glorious, sunshiney month.
It’s been 9 or 10 months since that bridge/seagull moment. I’ve been to and come back from Australia; I’ve signed up to run the London Marathon (I really just needed something to focus on back then… Severely regretting it now, especially as it’s been pushed back from the original date in April to October because of COVID-19 and because I don’t like running); I’ve moved to Hampstead Heath and now back to the countryside to live with Mum and Dad (again, because of COVID-19) and I’ve geeked out massively this summer with a macro lens and all of the UK wildlife.
Most precious to me, though: I’ve applied to and have been offered to study a Master’s in Conservation and International Wildlife Trade at the University of Kent in Canterbury. I’ve handed in my notice and I will be working at my job until the end of September this year, until my course begins in October. A full year’s cycle of change.
I think it’s important to stress: it wasn’t just the break-up that made me want this. A life-changing volunteership in South Africa, working on the Umfolozi game reserve with African Impact and the Happy Africa Foundation, back in 2014, sprouted this seed. And I’m sure I will write plenty more about that soon. The break-up just made me realise I should go get it.
My witterings 